PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 147.

October 7, 1914.

CHARIVARIA.

General Villa has now declared war on President Carranza. Everybody's doing it.

Is there, we wonder, a single unfair weapon which the Germans have not used? It is now said that not infrequently a German band is made to play when the enemy's infantry advances to attack.

A regrettable mistake is reported from South London. A thoroughly patriotic man was sat upon by a Cockney crowd for declaring that the Kaiser was a Nero.

Servia, The Times announces, will in future be called Serbia in our contemporary's columns. We would suggest that in the same way Bavaria might be called Babaria.

All German soldiers are close-cropped. To show, apparently, that they have the courage of the conviction they deserve.

The German officers in France are said to be extremely careful as to what they eat, betraying a great fear of being poisoned. It is, of course, a fact that one grain of vermin-killer would dispose of any one of them.

It has been suggested that the explanation of the Kaiser may be that he is a "throw-back." His parents were gentlefolk, but his ancestor, Frederick William I., was a well-known undesirable.

It is now stated that the reason why the German troops destroyed the historic edifices of Louvain and Rheims was the Kaiser's order that no stone was to be left unturned to prove that the Germans are the apostles of Culture.

It has been decided, after all, that Shakspeare may be played in Germany; and the proposal that the name of the bard should be changed to Wilhelm Säbelschüttler has been dropped in deference to the wishes of the Kaiser, who thought it might lead to confusion.

It has, we are glad to see, been denied that Carpentier, the famous boxer, has been wounded. This reminds us, by-the-by, of one more miscalculation that the German War Party made. In choosing their date for the outbreak of war they relied on the fact that Carpentier was not yet liable for service.

The Germans have had a bright new idea, and are calling us a nation of shopkeepers. Certainly we have been fairly successful so far in repelling their counter attacks.

"GERMAN PIES SHOT."

Times.

Sound policy this. The enemy cannot fight without his commissariat.

A well-known Floor Polish firm has issued a notice declaring that it is entirely a British concern. However, we shall not complain of their dealing with an alien enemy if they care to supply a little of it for the benefit of German manners.

Dr. Karl Vollmöller, who is chiefly notable for his spectacle "The Miracle," has, The Express tells us, been acting for the past month as Germany's head Press agent in Rome, and has now sailed for New York. One would have thought that there was greater need for him in Germany, where only a miracle can save the situation.

Publishers seem to be realising that books, to sell nowadays, must have warlike titles. Mrs. Kate Douglas Wiggin's new volume is, we note, called A Summer in a Cañon.

By the way, The Price of Love is announced. It is six shillings.

Hawker. "This ain't my usual way o' gittin' a livin', lidy; but, owin' to the war, I——"

Housekeeper. "That's all nonsense! Why, to my knowledge you have been about for the past ten years."

Hawker. "You'll pardon me, lidy, but I'm referrin' to the Souf Afrikin War."

EPITHETS FOR ACTORS.

The dramatic critic of The Daily Chronicle, speaking of the first performance of Mameena, observes, "Mr. Oscar Asche, jutting, preponderant and softly corrugated, was a splendid Zulu chief."

Following this distinguished example, we have endeavoured to express the histrionic inwardness of some of our leading actors and actresses on similar lines:—

Sir George Alexander, dolicocephalic, fimbriated and supra-lapsarian, interpreted the rôle of the archdeacon with consummate skill.

Sir Herbert Beerbohm Tree, goliardic, tarantulated and pontostomatous, invested the character of the great financier with a fluorescent charm.

Mr. Ainley, prognathous, salicylic and partially oxydised, made a superb lover.

Miss Gladys Cooper, lambent, pyramidal and turturine, fully realized the polyphonic cajoleries of Seraphina.

A Coincidence.

Thursday.—The Kaiser distributes 30,000 iron crosses.

Friday.—Great Britain declares pig-iron contraband of war.

"Members of the Tooloona Rifle Club have collected 1,000 fat sheep as a gift to the British troops. The price of butter has been reduced to £4 per ton, and the wheels of the export trade will be immediately set in motion."

Daily Chronicle.

How fortunate that the price of lubrication fell just in time.

ANOTHER "SCRAP OF PAPER."

["The Times" of October 1st vouches for the following Army Order issued by the German Kaiser on August 19th: "It is my Royal and Imperial Command that you concentrate your energies, for the immediate present, upon one single purpose, and that is that you address all your skill and all the valour of my soldiers to exterminate first the treacherous English and walk over General French's contemptible little Army."]

Wilhelm, I do not know your whereabouts.

The gods elude us. When we would detect your

Earthly address, 'tis veiled in misty doubts

Of devious conjecture.

At Nancy, in a moist trench, I am told

That you performed an unrehearsed lustration;

That there you linger, having caught a cold,

Followed by inflammation.

Others assert that your asbestos hut,

Conveyed (with you inside) to Polish regions,

Promises to afford a likely butt

To Russia's wingéd legions.

But, whether this or that (or both) be true,

Or merely tales of which we have the air full,

In any case I say, "O Wilhelm, do,

Do, if you can, be careful!"

For if, by evil chance, upon your head,

Your precious head, some impious shell alighted,

I should regard my dearest hopes as dead,

My occupation blighted.

I want to save you for another scene,

Having perused a certain Manifesto

That stimulates an itching, very keen,

In every Briton's best toe—

An Order issued to your Army's flower,

Giving instructions most precise and stringent

For the immediate wiping out of our

"Contemptible" contingent.

Well, that's a reason why I'd see you spared;

So take no risks, but rather heed my warning,

Because I have a little plan prepared

For Potsdam, one fine morning.

I see you, ringed about with conquering foes—

See you, in penitential robe (with taper),

Invited to assume a bending pose

And eat that scrap of paper!

O. S.

UNWRITTEN LETTERS TO THE KAISER.

No. III.

(From the Emperor-king of Austria-Hungary.)

My very dear Brother and Best Friend,—I seize a few moments of leisure to write and congratulate you, as I congratulate myself, on this constant succession of almost incredible victories that have brought new laurels to your arms. Your presence in Paris at the head of the splendid troops whom you have conducted from triumph to triumph places the coping-stone on your life's work. Oh, that it had been possible for your dear old grandfather—I did not always value him as he deserved—to have lived to see this glory. But, then, I suppose your part in the work would have been less brilliant and prominent, so, perhaps, all is for the best as it is.

To have captured the whole French army; to have driven the English army into the sea and drowned them in what they call their own element (by the way, when are you going to make your triumphal entry into London?); to have brought the ungrateful Belgians to recognise you not merely as their conqueror but also as their benefactor—all this is really almost enough of honour for one man. But in addition you have made the plans which have kept so many of the disgraceful Russians cooped up in their own country, and you will soon, I am sure, lead your troops to Moscow and on to Petersburg. My own brave fellows shall march shoulder to shoulder with them. Nothing will be impossible to these armies thus united and thus led.

What my noble soldiers have hitherto done has been tremendous and overwhelming. You have, of course, read the bulletins issued by our War Office. These, however, give an inadequate idea of what has taken place, and you will, I am sure, forgive me if with the natural pride of an old man I relate to you these matters in their true proportions. We have made a military promenade through Montenegro and Servia and have annexed both these troublesome countries. Only ten Servians and four Montenegrins have been left alive, so that in future, it may be hoped, we shall not be vexed by any of their conspiracies. In the Adriatic, we have made mincemeat of the combined British and French fleets, and have thus removed from the wretched Italians any temptation to join in the war against us. It was a magnificent victory, quite equal to that in which your grand fleet sunk the whole of the British fleet in the North Sea. Finally, as you know, we have driven the Russians before us like chaff before the wind. Many hundred thousand Russians, with guns, ammunition and battle flags, have been taken prisoners and are interned here in Vienna. All these mighty deeds have been performed by our soldiers and sailors at an infinitesimal cost. I doubt if we have had two hundred men killed and wounded. Surely it is a great thing to be alive in these glorious days.

What pleases me, I may say, as much as anything else, is the wonderful example of generosity and humanity which your army and mine have been able to offer to the world. I shudder to think what would have happened to Belgium, to Germany and to ourselves, had the French, the Russians and the English been victorious. Villages would have been burnt, civilians with their women and children would have been massacred, churches and cathedrals would have been laid in ruins, and whole countries would have been devastated. It is to our glory that nothing of this sort has happened; but, after all, we need not take credit for having acted as Christians and gentlemen. We could do no other.

I am arranging for a Te Deum in St. Stephen's church to thank God for all the blessings He has vouchsafed to our arms. I wonder if you would consent to attend. I would arrange the date to suit you. And I hope you will bring with you some of those fine upstanding fellows of yours who have fought through the war. Some foolish persons consider them stiff and hard, but, for myself, I like to see their soldierly pride. Pray give my regards to your gracious Empress, and my love to the little princes. But, of course, they must be quite grown up by now.

Your devoted Brother and Friend,

Francis Joseph.

P.S.—I have just heard that a large number of Russians are approaching Vienna. No doubt they are sent to sue for peace.

How to be Useful in War Time.

"The usefulness of the map is increased by its giving weights in mètres."—Morning Post.

THE INCORRIGIBLES.

New Arrival at the Front. "WHAT'S THE PROGRAMME?"

Old Hand. "WELL, YOU LAY DOWN IN THIS WATER, AND YOU GET PEPPERED ALL DAY AND NIGHT, AND YOU HAVE THE TIME OF YOUR LIFE!"

Very proper Cook (horrified at reports of German atrocities). "Really, Mum, it seems as if the Germans are not at all the thing."

THE LAST LINE.

II.

I have said that our motto is "Soldier and Civilian Too." That is our strength and our weakness; our weakness because it leaves us a little uncertain as to how we stand in matters of discipline.

I happened to be Corporal of the Guard the other evening—a delightful position. For the first time I had a little authority. True I sometimes give the man next to me a prod in the wind and whisper, "Form fours, idiot," but it is an unofficial prod, designed to save him from the official fury. Now for the first time I was in power, with the whole strength of military law behind me. So of course I got busy. As soon as the first guard had been set, and the rest of them, with their distinguished corporal and commonplace sergeant, were in the guard tent, I let myself go.

"Now then, my lad," I said to one, "look alive. Just clear this tent a bit, and then fetch some straw for my bed to-night. When you've done that, I'll think of something else for you. We've all got to work these days. Bustle up."

Without looking up from the paper he was straining his eyes to read, he murmured lazily, "Oh, go and boil your head," and bent still lower over the news. The others sniggered.

For a moment I was taken aback. Then I saw that there was only one dignified thing to do. I went out and consulted my solicitor.

"James," I said, as soon as I had found him, "I desire your advice. Free," I added as an afterthought.

"Go on," said James, sitting up and putting the tips of his fingers together.

"It is like this. I am Corporal of the Guard." James looked impressed. "Corporal of the Guard," I repeated; "a responsible position. Practically the whole safety of the camp depends upon me. In the interests of that safety I found it necessary to give some orders just now. The reply I received was, 'Go and boil your head.' What ought I to do?"

James was thoughtful for a little.

"It depends," he said at last.

"How depends?" I asked indignantly. "He told me to go and boil my——"

"Exactly. So that it depends on who told you. If it was the Sergeant of the Guard whom you accidentally addressed——"

"Help!" I murmured, struck by a horrible fear.

"In that case," went on James, "it would be your duty to obey orders. Obtaining a large saucepan of fresh water, you would heat it to, approximately, 212 degrees Fahrenheit, at which point bubbles would begin to appear upon the surface of the pan. Then, immersing the head until the countenance assumed a ripe beetroot colour, you would return it to the Sergeant of the Guard, salute, and ask him if he had any further instructions to give you ... No," added James, "I think I am wrong there. It would not be necessary for you to salute. Only commissioned officers are saluted in the British Army."

I had been thinking furiously while James was speaking.

"It wasn't the sergeant," I said eagerly. "I'm sure it wasn't. I noticed him particularly when we were forming up. No, James, it was an ordinary private."

"In that case the position is more complicated. On the whole I think it would be your duty to convene a court-martial and have the fellow shot."

I looked at my watch.

"How long does it take to convene a court martial?" I asked. "I've never convened one before."

"What matter the time!" said James grandly. "The mills may grind slowly, but they grind exceeding small."

"Quite so. But in about an hour and a quarter the guard is changed; and if, as is probable, the man who insulted me is then on guard himself, he will have the rifle. And if he has the rifle, I don't quite see how we are going to shoot him."

"You mean he mightn't give it up?"

"Yes. It would be rank insubordination, I admit, but in the circumstances one would not be surprised at his attitude."

"That is a good point," said James. "It had escaped me." He was silent again. "There's another thing, too, I was forgetting," he added. "If he were shot, his wife might possibly object and make a fuss. The affair would very likely get into the papers—you know what the Press is. It might give the Corps a bad name."

We were both silent for a little.

"Suppose," I said, "the death penalty were not enforced, and he were merely given three days in cells?"

"But he has to get back to his work on Monday."

"True. Really, it's very hard to see how discipline can be maintained. I almost wish now that I wasn't a temporary non-commissioned officer. As a private one simply has the time of one's life, telling corporals all day long to go and boil their heads. I wish I were a private again."

"There's one thing you can do," said James. "You can report him to the Sergeant of the Guard."

"And what's the good of that?"

"Only that it's probably your duty," said James austerely. "And I should think it's also your duty to get back to the guard-tent as soon as possible."

I rose with dignity.

"I do not consult my solicitor simply to be told my duty," I said stiffly. "All I want to know is, can I bring an action against him?"

"No," said James.

"In that case I will return. Good evening."

I went back to the guard-tent. The mutineer was still reading, but now there was a light to read by. He looked up as I came in. I had had that uneasy feeling all along, and now I knew. It was the Sergeant.

I saluted. It may be wrong, as James says, but a salute or two thrown in can't do any harm.

"May I speak to you, Sergeant?" I said respectfully, yet with an air which implied that the Germans were upon us and that the news must be kept from the others.

We went outside together.

"Awfully sorry," I said; "it was rather dark. I'm an ass."

"My dear man, that's all right," he said. "By the way you'd better see about getting some straw in. I've got to see the Adjutant." He went off, and I returned to the tent.

"I want one of you to help me get some straw," I said mildly.

Three of them jumped up at once. "You stay here," they said, "we'll get it."

So there you are; there's nothing wrong with the discipline. At the same time if it were necessary to shoot anybody, I am not quite sure how we should proceed.

A. A. M.

A POSSIBLE SOURCE.

Dear Mr. Punch,—Having recently dropped into several London theatres and halls of variety I have been struck by the numerical strength, agility and apparently abounding vitality of the young men forming the chorus. These gallant fellows sing and caper with the utmost spirit throughout the whole evening, both in musical comedy or revue; and in London alone, where revues are now being postponed at many of the outlying halls, there must be more than a thousand of them. Now and then they even go so far as to impersonate recruits—the chorus to the recruiting songs which have crept into more than one programme—and they make, I can assure you, Sir, a very brave show with their rifles and their military paces, a little accelerated perhaps by the exigencies of the tune, but a marvel of discipline none the less.

Watching these brisk and efficient male choruses at work, the thought has come to me—in fact has often been forced upon me by the martial nature of the musical number which they were engaged in rendering with so much capability and cheerfulness—that at a time when England is particularly in need of her young men in the field, the audiences of London might consent to forgo a little of the pleasure that comes from watching athletic youths covered with grease-paint and gyrating in the limelight, and, by expressing their readiness to see those necessary evolutions carried out by older men, liberate so much good material to join the Army. Such is the power of the make-up (I am told) that a man of fifty could easily be arranged to look sufficiently like a man of half his age, at any rate without imperilling the success of the entertainment from the point of view of the spectator. And of course the girls will remain in all their charm, since girls cannot enlist.

The point may be worth considering. The decision, I feel sure, rests entirely with the public. If the public says: "Let the young men go, and give us more mature choristers for a while, and we will patriotically endeavour to endure the privation"—then all the young men will, of course, enlist as one. But unless the public says this they must remain in the choruses against the grain.

I am, Sir, Yours gratefully,

Over Age.

The Censor at Work.

Beneath a photograph of a naval officer The Daily Mirror says:—

"A daring raid has just been made by Commander Samson ... The small picture shows the commander."

Beneath the same photograph The Daily Mail says:—

"A famous British naval airman (nameless by order of the Censor)."

But the order of the Censor came too late. The Mirror had given the great secret away to the Kaiser, and the whole course of the war was altered.

Recruiting Officer. "What's the good of coming here and saying you're only seventeen years old? Go and walk round that yard and come back and see if you're not nineteen."

"I 'opes yer mistress'll 'scuse me bein' so late with the washin'. Yer see, I dussent come in daylight for fear of the Government pinchin' my 'orse for the war."

THE SAVING OF STRATFORD.

[It has been decided, we gather, to go on playing Shakspeare in Berlin, because Shakspeare is so closely connected with the German race.]

This was so good of you, so like your grace,

Ye on whose brows the brand of Rheims is graven,

To spare the poet of our common race

And find forgiveness for the Bard of Avon;

And all the little lore he feebly guessed,

Phantasy, rhetoric, and trope and sermon,

To clasp politely to your mailéd breast,

Refine, transmute and render wholly German.

Seeing in Henry V. a Prussian King,

Tracing in Hamlet a more moody Kaiser,

You put new might into the master's wing,

He seems more wonderful to us, and wiser;

Not as he dimly sang in ages gone

He warbles to us now, but wild with culture,

Exchanging for the mere parochial Swan

The full-mouthed war notes of the Potsdam Vulture.

So shall he live, and live eternally

(In humble homage to the War Lord's mitten)

"This precious stone set in the silver sea,"

Heligoland, of course, and not Great Britain:

A thousand carven saints are lain in dust

In lands the Prussian Junker sets his boot on,

But Wilhelm Shakspeare and his honoured bust

Shall save themselves by being partly Teuton.

And when the hooves of those imperial swine

Leap, as of course they will, the ocean's borders,

And England's trampled down from Thames to Tyne,

And Wells is burnt, and Winchester, by orders,

It may be tears shall start into the eyes

Of helméd colonels in our Midland valleys,

And they shall spare the tomb where Shakspeare lies;

He was a German (Deutschland über alles).

Almost I seem to see the Uhlans stand,

Paying their pious sixpences to enter

That little homestead of the Fatherland

That housed the dramatist in Stratford's centre;

A trifle flushed, maybe, with English beer,

But mutely reverent and not talking chattily,

They write beneath their names: "A friend lives here;

Not to be ransacked. Signed, The Modern Attilæ."

A glorious scene. The voice of Krupp is dumb;

Not pining now for Frankfort or for Münich,

The sub-lieutenant slides with quivering thumb

A picture-postcard underneath his tunic.

Till then, if any dawn of doubt creeps in

How best to judge the Bard and praise him rightly,

Let me implore the actors of Berlin

To play Macbeth to crowded houses nightly.

Evoe.

THE INTERPRETERS.

"May I go into the village to get my hair cut?" asked Sinclair of my wife. "I'll promise to be back for tea."

Upon her assurance that Madame Mercier was lying down and was not at all likely to appear, permission was granted. We do not generally allow Sinclair to go out of the grounds at present. He is acting as the central link which makes the continuance of the social life possible to us. For I do not think that we could have undertaken (with our deplorable ignorance of French) to entertain Belgian refugees at all had he not been staying with us. As it is, it works beautifully, though Madame Mercier and her two daughters speak no English, for Sinclair's French is perfectly adequate.

It was during his absence that we learned that my neighbour, Andrew Henderson, the dairy farmer, had also taken in a Belgian—a woman who was to work on the farm during the winter.

"Here's another chance for you, Sinclair," said I, as he appeared at the gate. "It looks as if you will have to call round every morning to interpret and give 'em a good start for the day."

Sinclair was full of zeal and set off next day after breakfast. From the drawing-room window we watched his triumphant entry into the farm-yard at the foot of the hill. But he came back in a dejected frame of mind.

"She's called Suzanne," he told us, "and she's quite a nice-looking sort of woman, and she handles a turnip-cutter like an expert; but she talks nothing but Flemish."

"We might have thought of that," said the Reverend Henry. "Still, I daresay they'll manage all right."

"On the contrary," said Sinclair. "Henderson sent Suzanne to get the letters last night. She was gone a long, long time, and at last came back with three live fowls in a sack. She had been chasing them round the hen-house for all she was worth. Things can't go on like that, you know."

The Reverend Henry had an idea. "The only way out of it," he said, "is for you and Madame Mercier both to go. She knows Flemish."

"Yes, that's it," said I. "Henderson tells you what he wants; you hand it on to Madame Mercier in French; she transmits it to Suzanne in Flemish—and there you are!"

"Right-o!" said Sinclair. "We'll have a shot to-morrow morning."

Madame Mercier, who is a kindly, gentle creature, was most anxious to help, and again we viewed the operations in the farm-yard. The Reverend Henry got out his field-glasses (which have since been sent to Lord Roberts) and we watched the little corps of interpreters getting to work, while Suzanne, eager and expectant, like a hound on the leash, waited, shovel in hand. But it all ended in confusion and head-shaking and a dreary retreat up the hill. Madame Mercier seemed to be much amused.

"We have decided to adjourn," said Sinclair. "The truth is, we were not getting on at all. It looks as if you will have to come too."

"I was always afraid there were weak spots in you, after all, Sinclair," said the Reverend Henry. "It does not surprise me. You are all right in table French or even in domestic, railway or restaurant French, but as soon as we get outside of your beat into agricultural French——"

"It isn't that," said Sinclair. "I'm all right. It's that confounded fellow, Henderson. I'm hanged if I can understand a word of his Scotch. Never heard such a lingo in my life."

It is true that Henderson, who comes from some obscure district far North even of this, is a little difficult to understand. I have found him so myself.

"He said he wanted Suzanne to 'redd up the fauls,' as far as I could gather. Well, I have no idea what the fauls are, and I don't see how she is going to read them up in a language she doesn't understand. I had to give him up. We can't get on without your help."

That afternoon the Interpretation Committee, now increased to four active members, for Henry had insisted on coming too as referee, took up its position in the farm-yard in the form of a chain, along which communication was to pass from Henderson, through me, Sinclair and Madame Mercier to Suzanne. It was a little embarrassing for Suzanne, but she stood her ground well and waited in an admirably receptive mood, while the various items percolated through. Henderson gave me in careful detail the whole of his commands for her normal daily life, and everything seemed to go splendidly. But I am afraid the thing must have passed through too many hands before it reached its destination; for Suzanne, after many cheerful nods, suddenly broke off and turned on her heel. Then she secured an axe, which was lying against the bothy door, and walked with a steady and fixed purpose, never turning her head, out into the lane, through the gate and up the hill. We watched her spellbound till she reached the horizon, and there saw her pause, roll up her sleeves and furiously attack an old spruce tree.

It is impossible to say who was to blame. But it is clear that the instructions (as the Frenchman said of Brahms' Variations) had been diablement changés en route.

INDIA: 1784-1914.

The job was for us, grin and bear;

We'd lit on India's dust an' drought;

We knew as we were planted there,

But scarcely how it came about;

And so, in rough and tumble style,

And nothing much to make a shout,

We set our backs to graft a while,

And meant to stay and stick it out.

Ten hundred risky, frisky Kings,

And on the whole a decent lot;

And several hundred million things

That trusted us with all they'd got;

And so we blundered at it straight,

And found the times was pretty hot;

And so they smiled and called it Fate,

And Fate it was, as like as not.

Our law was one for great and small—

We heard 'em honest, claim for claim;

We smooth'd their squabbles for 'em all,

And let 'em pray by any name;

And so we left enough alone,

But learnt 'em plenty all the same;

We show'd 'em what they should be shown,

And tried to play the decent game.

For all our work we've not got much?

P'r'aps not: but now there's come a scrap

That's got us good with lies and such,